


Measured by our Time

by TheHoardingPuffin



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blood Poisoning, Carl Grimes Lives, Carl Grimes Needs a Hug, Character Death Fix, Family Feels, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Carl Grimes, Hurt/Comfort, Parent Daryl Dixon, Parent Michonne (Walking Dead), Parent Rick Grimes, Recovery, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHoardingPuffin/pseuds/TheHoardingPuffin
Summary: Carl gets bit and Alexandria stands in flames. But somehow, even this gets better.
Relationships: Carl Grimes & Judith Grimes, Carl Grimes & Michonne, Carl Grimes & Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon & Carl Grimes, Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes/Michonne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Measured by our Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, folks! Recently I have been rewatching Walking Dead and because I will forever be heartbroken and very bitter about Carl being killed off, I decided to write a little Fix-It-Thingy. There'll still be a lot of hurt/comfort content though because that's just what I write best or rather, what I like writing best for some reason.   
> As always, reviews and kudos are much appreciated.   
> Love, Lotta

**Measured by our Time**

Carl Grimes was dreaming.

He was dreaming that he was under water. The pressure on his ears seemed strong enough to burst his skull like a berry squished between two fingers, and his lungs were on fire. There was a chain on his ankle, keeping him from breaking the surface that was right above his head. No matter how hard he struggled, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t reach it.

Then, suddenly, the chain broke – ripped in the middle as if it was no stronger than a blade of grass – and with the last bit of power he had in him, he swam upwards, his head breaking through the water and – AIR! Air, finally! He breathed it in, greedy, so fast that he almost choked on it, choked on air… And then he smelled it. Smoke. Before, his lungs had been on fire, and now, as he looked around, wiped the water from his eyes, the shoreline was on fire instead. Dammit – now what? He looked around, and there was a crate next to him, bouncing up and down in the water.

He grabbed it, and suddenly he was no longer in the water, he was in a forest, and someone was holding him down, tugging at his clothes and there was the metallic clack of a belt buckle being opened… scared, scared, fucking hell… “First we take the boy, then the girl, and then we kill you.” Who was talking there? Fuck, he had been here before, he remembered this… Fuck, no, not again, please not again not again not again please please ple-

“Carl?”

His eyes snapped open. Michonne was sitting on his bed, looking down at him, her brows furrowed. She looked like she had just woken up, pillowmarks still on her right cheek and her neck, and in her nightshirt, her hair wrapped in a satin scarf.

“You alright, Carl?”

“I, uhm…” He took a deep breath, ran one hand over his face. “Yeah. Just, just a bad dream.”

“That much I figured. You were screaming bloody murder in here.”

Oops.

“Sorry I woke you up”, he rasped out. Michonne shrugged. “Happens to the best of us sometimes.”

A gentle hand stroked though his hair, pushing the long strands from his face. “Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head. “It’s just… old shit. The, uh… the men in that forest... before we went to Terminus.”

Michonne nodded, running her hand through his hair once more. “You’re gonna be okay then?”

Carl nodded, laying back down, whispering a Thanks. Michonne gave him a warm, albeit tired, smile as an answer.

He had just been dreaming. Good. Dreams, he could deal with. Reality, oh, that was a whole other issue to tackle. Reality has people like the Claimers, and the cannibals of Terminus, people like the Govenor and like Negan. Dreams only had shadow-y cardboard cutouts of the evils of real life. He’d take a bad dream over an equally bad reality any day.

He could barely keep his eyes open the next morning. Sitting at the table, his head supported on one hand, eyes slipping shut every few seconds, he must’ve been quite the sight – at least to his sister. Judith was sitting across him, looking at him with wide eyes, giggling whenever she caught him nodding off for the briefest of moments.

“Didn’t get much sleep last night, champ?” Rick ruffled his hair affectionally, then sat down a mug in front of him. “Coffee?”

“Sure. Yup, thanks.”

He nearly burned his tongue on the black liquid but he drank it anyways, downed it in a hurry. Anything to get himself awake.

“Hope, you’re still up for that supply run”, his father went on. “We need gas, and…”

“I know. I’m still up for it, don’t worry.”

As soon as the coffee kicks in anyways…

About an hour or so later, he and his father are on the road, walking side by side in silence. They’ve been doing this a lot, lately… getting out on smaller errant runs on foot instead of wasting the gas. It was smarter, and quicker too, because it takes time to get in a car when you’re suddenly attacked by walkers, while straight up starting to run is faster and safer.

They split up, and each of them went on their own search. Gas wasn’t easy to come by, but there was always hope. Hope was important these days, more than ever.

Hope.

Hope was the reason he tried to get his father to make a peace with Negan, if possible.

Hope was the reason he helped a complete stranger so that he wouldn’t starve.

“You hope the guy makes it”, he repeated Rick’s own words to him. “That's not enough! If you give a shit – If you care, you do something. You don't just _hope_. It takes more than that!”

Hope was the reason he offered him – Siddiq, that’s his name, Carl learned – to come with him, to Alexandria, through the old sewage system.

Hope.

A small word carrying a big fucking weight. And what good has it done him? Hope cannot solve every problem. Hope cannot heal a bite.

The wound on his chest burned as he stood under the shower, washing off all the grime and dirt, and the blood. He leaned his forehead against the tiled wall, taking a shuddering breath and making a decision. The falling water mixed with the tears on his face.

He threw the ruined shirt away, got dressed, changed the bandage that covered his eye socket and the majority of the burn scars around it. He brushed out his hair, and with putting his hat back on, he also put on a brave face. He wouldn’t tell anyone until he had to. He would make some good last memories. No use crying now, no use calling to the sky in anger about how unfair this was. Better to use the remaining hours – days if he was lucky – the best way he could.

So much for that. So much for good last memories. The last memories most of the people he knows and loves will have of him are of him standing in a burning, smoking Alexandria, shouting at Michonne – “This is _my_ show! You said it! This is my plan, and you're gonna do it! You're all gonna do it!” – and leading the evacuation plans.

Negan’s last memory of him would be of him demanding “Kill me” – because I will die soon anyways – “If you have to kill someone, if there has to be punishment, then kill me!”

At least he made some good memories with Judith, if she will even remember them. That had to be worth a bit.

With the fires all around, and the adrenaline pumping, Carl didn’t even notice how hot he was getting, as the fever that followed after a bite set in. He didn’t notice until he stopped to take a breath, and noticed the ground under his feet sway, and the air whistling in his ears. His heart was beating too fast, he didn’t seem to get enough air no matter how deep of a breath he took… And suddenly there was no ground under his feet at all, and his head hit the grass, his hat falling off, all the air being squished out of his lungs at once. He didn’t find the strength to stand up again.

Daryl found him, lying on the ground, barely conscious.

“Hey there”, he could hear the hunter whisper, and then he feels himself be lifted up, and his head hits Daryl’s shoulder; he could smell the leather of his biking jacket, and the general odour of sweat and smoke they probably all had on them... He could feel Daryl’s chest move as he said something, but he couldn’t understand the words…

Darkness.

Darkness that didn’t lift until he was down below, in the sewers, hiding out with everyone else. His back leaned against the wall, and Siddiq was there by his side, carefully taking a look at the back of his head – he had gotten himself a pretty little laceration when he fell – and handing him the rest of the chocolate-biscuit-bar Carl had given him earlier.

“You need to get you blood sugar up a bit”, the newcomer whispered, and then clicked his tongue about the wound. “I don’t have the resources right now… but this should be bandaged.”

“Don’t bother”, Carl rasped out. “No use now…”

He winced and wrapped his arms around himself – dammit, he felt cold, how could he be cold down here when the town above was in flames…

“You’re burning up”, Siddiq murmured.

Ah. That explained the chills, then…

“Carl!”

The oh-so-familiar voice, the way he drew out his name until it sounded more like _Coral_ than _Carl_ … his Dad was here. Oh, good.

Oh, not good. Now he would see…

Did that matter anymore? Not really, no.

“Carl, what’s wrong?”, his father asked, kneeling down in front of him, fear in his eyes.

“What do you think?”, Carl asked, and reached down to pull up his shirt, even though the cold air on his bare skin sent cold shivers down his spine. With shaking fingers, he peeled back the small bandage he had taped over the bite mark.

“Carl…”, his Dad whispered.

“It’s alright, Das”, he whispered back. “It’s gonna be, it’s… I wasn’t sure if you’d make it back, be-before… but just in case, I… I wanted to make sure I was able to say goodbye.”

His father shook his head in violent denial. “No. It’s them, it’s them, they, they don’t… it wasn’t…” And he started crying. “Carl…”

“No. Dad. I got bit. Not on them. I got bit.”

His eyes searched Michonne’s, then went back to Rick’s. “I was bringing someone back. His name's Siddiq.”

He gestured towards the stranger he’d taken with him. “We saw him at that gas station, before... It wasn't the Saviors. It just happened. I got bit.”

He was well aware that everyone in here – his family – was staring at him now, but he ignored it. He felt too weak to move much, but he had to spend whatever energy he had left for this. This mattered.

Above them, explosions went off, the sound muffled through the ground, but still shaking the sewage system to the core.

The fever got worse. It got harder to keep himself upright, even leaning against the wall. Michonne helped him lie down, taking his head into her lap. Being moved hurt, it hurt in every fibre of his body and, low under his breath, he choked out a word.

“Mom…”  
Had it been any other moment, any other situation, he might’ve been embarrassed, but now he couldn’t bring himself to be. It had just slipped out. Michonne didn’t seem to mind. She just smiled down at him, a sad but gentle smile.

“It’s okay, baby”, she whispered. “Here, is that better?”

Carl nodded. “Thanks”, he rasped out.

Siddiq pulled out a dusty orange bottle, said something about them being anti-inflammatories, using long difficult words that slipped right through his fever-hazy mind.

“They help a little with the fever”, Siddiq explained. “They did for my parents.”

And he handed Michonne the bottle. She pushed Carl’s head up a little and helped him take two of the small pills, and pressed a bottle of water against his lips so he could wash them down. He drank, greedily, barely paying attention to his father and Siddiq talking about the latter’s medical knowledge.

“Did you know he was a doctor?”, Rick asked him, suddenly. “Is that why you brought him back?”

It took Carl a moment to understand what the question meant.

“He, he wasn’t gonna make it alone, Dad”, he whispered. “He needed us. That’s why. He – he was the one at the gas station, he…”

A cough disrupted him, and Michonne helped him lean sideways so he wouldn’t choke. Tears of pain burned in his eyes, and he struggled to regain his breathing… why was his heart beating so fast? It felt too fast to him…

The others talked about an escape – something about Hilltop – about… about… God, fucking dammit, those explosions up top were so loud… so loud…

“You said Hilltop’s safe, right?” We need to get everybody there. We can get Carl there…”

“They saw us go West, so we just won’t go West…”

“They find us here, we’re dead!”

“After they’re gone, that’s when…”

Slowly, the pills kicked in. The burning seemed to lessen, the fog in his head getting cleared a bit.

“Michonne?”

“Yes?”

Her hand was running through his hair again, like that night when he’d had the nightmare.

“It has to stop, Michonne. All this has to… it’s not supposed to be like this. It can be better, I know it can.”

Michonne nodded, but didn’t say anything. Just ran her hand through his hair.

“Sounds like they're letting up”, someone said and “They’re leaving” someone else.

“Maybe.” That one was Daryl. “I’m gonna take a look.”

Silence. Almost. Muffled conversations Carl couldn’t concentrate on. Then, Daryl came back. “The Saviours are gone. We can get everyone to Hilltop.”

“I’ll get one of the cars.” – “I’ll get the other.” – “Be careful.” – “Someone take Carl…”

“No”, Carl whispered. “No, don’t… I won’t make it…”  
“I won’t leave you here”, Rick said.

“Neither can I.” Michonne gently squeezed his hand.

Carl sighed. “Can someone… please… get Judith?”, he asked, almost begged. “I need to see her, I…”

Daryl stepped into his line of view, his baby sister secure in his arms. Rick and Michonne helped him sit up, and he reached out, gently stroking Judith’s blonde hair and along her round soft face… God, he must’ve looking horrible to her, like a monster already… he probably was all pale, and he was sweat-soaked and likely seemed more dead than alive…

“You be good, okay? For Michonne. For Dad”, he whispered. “Okay? You gotta honour them. Listen when they tell you stuff. You don't have to always. Sometimes, kids got to show their parents the way, too.”

He reached to the side, took his hat – Daryl had taken his hat, that was nice… 

“This was Dad's before it was mine. Now it's yours.” He sniffled, not able to wipe his tears away. “I don't know... Just... Just having it and... It always kept Dad with me. It made me feel as strong as him. It helped me. Maybe it'll help you, too.”

He was talking faster now, there was so much he needed his sister to hear before he… even if she wouldn’t remember… “Before Mom died... she told me that I was gonna beat this world. I didn't. But you will.”

Judith whined softly, reaching out and touching Carl’s cheek. As if she knew what was happening. As if she knew that her brother was dying. Maybe she did.

“I know you will”, he choked out, and then fell back, against Michonne’s chest as she caught him. Judith started crying, a high-pitched wail that could shake you to the bone.

Daryl knelt down again and picked the girl up, her cries muffled as she held onto his leather vest and buried her little face in the curve of his neck.

Daryl turned around to Carl. “These people. You saved them all. That's all you, man.”

Siddiq moved into his line of sight, nodding. He was crying, too. “You were helping me honour my mom.”

“Not just yours. Mine, too.”

“No, Carl, you – you brought me here. You gave me a chance. I know I can never repay you... but I can honour you by showing your people, your f-friends, your... your family that what you did wasn't for nothing. That it mattered. That it... That it meant something.”

He wiped the tears from his face. “Be-because it did. So that's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna honour you, Carl.”

Carl laughed. It felt good to laugh. “Congratulations. You're stuck with us now.”

Many of the Alexandrians left now, slowly, but they did. Carl prayed they made it out well. That they survived. He took a sharp breath.

“You okay?”, Michonne asked. Carl nodded.   
“I… I don't want you to be sad after this.”

“Carl…”

“You're gonna have to be strong. For my dad. For Judith. Promise me, please!”

“Okay… Okay, yeah, I promise. I will.”

Daryl handed Judith off to someone, and knelt down next to him. “Okay, now”, he said, and then there was an arm around Carl’s neck and the other under his knees.

“Up you go.”

Being lifted up so suddenly made the boy all dizzy and confused for a moment.

“No”, he brought out nonetheless. “No, leave me, let me down, please…”

“No can do. Sorry.”

They got inside one of the cars, and drove off. Michonne was in the front with Siddiq, his Dad and Daryl in the back with him, holding him.

His fever had to have gone up again, his body felt like it had been covered in gasoline and then set on fire… “Dad… thank you, for… for getting me here… for making it so I could be who… who I wound up being, I…”  
He was close to unconsciousness, he knew, words were just bubbling out of his mouth, no filter, just thoughts, pure thoughts – “Back at the prison... when we got attacked... there was a kid, a little older than me. He had a gun. He was... He was starting to put it down, and I-I s... I shot him. He was... He was giving it up, and I... I just... I shot him. I think about him. What I did to him and how... How easy it was to just... kill him.”

He couldn’t see it in the dark, but he knew that his Dad was shaking his head. “No, Carl… What happened... what you'd lost...” He sounded like he was crying. “All those thing you had to do... You... You... You... You were just... You were just a boy!”

“And you saw it, how… how easy it got.” He swallowed. It hurt. His father was crying. Maybe Michonne was too. Maybe Daryl.

“That's why you changed... why you brought those people from Woodbury in... You brought them in, and we all lived together. We were _enemies_. You put away your gun. You did it so I could change, so I could be who I am now. What you did then... How you... How you stopped fighting.. it was right. It still is. It can be like that again. You can still be like that again.”

“Carl, I… I can’t be… It's different now.”

“You can't kill all of 'em, Dad! There's gotta be something after!”

His voice sounded shrill, panicked despite being so hoarse. “For you... and for them! I know... you can't see it yet... how it could be.”

Daryl’s hand was on his shoulder, moving in small circles. “Tell us”, the hunter asked.

“Dad has a beard”, Carl said. “Longer and greyer… Michonne and Daryl, you’re… happy and… Judy is older, and she's listening to the songs that I used to before... Alexandria's bigger. There's... There's new houses... crops... and people working. Everybody living... helping everybody else live.”

He retold his dreams, his hopes so fast that he nearly choked on the words. His voice cracked, nearly broke. “I want this, for all of you, Dad!”

I'm gonna make it real, Carl.” His father could barely get the words out. “I promise. I'm gonna make it real.”

“Good.”

A smile appeared on his face and he slipped into the darkness.

And then, he woke up.

Which was a miracle all by itself.

Everything hurt, his muscles still felt like they were on fire and there was a white-hot ache behind his eyes, which he couldn’t even open – too heavy, too much pain, too much work at the moment – but he was awake nonetheless. He could hear people around him, felt what was under and around him… soft, covered with fabric… a bed maybe… People were around him, taking – shouting? They were loud, and seemed stressed… and he was alive and awake and around them.

Why?

Why the hell was he alive? He… he shouldn’t be. Why hadn’t they… why hadn’t Michonne? Why… How…

“I think he’s coming to.” A dark gruff voice. “Carl, can you hear me?”

_Yes. Yes! And why is that?_

“I don’t understand, but this doesn’t look like… I don’t think… maybe… see that red streak… need antibiotics… infusions…”

“Carl! Carl, can you hear me?”

“Wake up, baby, come on…”

“It makes no sense, how could he… he should… turned… now… how is this…”

“Symptom of a sepsis… see those bruises… streak… act now… infection…”

Everything hurt… maybe he was turning already… maybe he was already dead… everything hurt, hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt

“Carl, if you hear us, squeeze Daryl’s hand. Can you do that?”

A hand grabbed his, rough skin against his own.

“Just a small squeeze, come on, you can do that…”

Could he, really? Could he… He could. He focussed as hard as he could, and curled his fingers around the ones holding his hand.

“Very good! Okay! You hear us. Can you open your eyes?”

_Yes? Maybe? He could try… no. No._

“It’s okay, baby.” Michonne? “You’re doing great!”

“I’m gonna have to put him under again… need to treat this… should be safe… I…”

Something went into his arm, it hurt and stung… and then darkness, again.

He dreamed.

That was weird.

Dead people did not dream.

He was back at the prison, outside the fence. He stood by his mother’s grave and looked down at the makeshift cross… and a cold hand took his, and squeezed it gently, and as he looked up, he saw his mother stand there, exactly how he remembered her, before… before he had had to… in a white dress, simple cut, long sleeves… she smiled at him, ruffled his hair… “You shouldn’t be here, darling. You’re not done yet.”

He wanted to ask what that meant, but his mouth wouldn’t comply, he couldn’t get the words out at all…

Stormclouds up ahead, covering the sun, and there were walkers all around him, now, tearing at every limb and at his hair and…

He heard his baby sister cry, and he wanted to get to her, wanted to see her safe, safe, safe – and then darkness swallowed all and all that was left was the snarling and snapping of the walkers. It almost sounded like they were calling his name.

Waking up hurt less this time. But he woke up. Woke up alive.

“Carl? Hey, can you hear me? Can you move your fingers for me so I know you’re awake?”

_Maybe… yes._ Slowly, he moved his fingers. His hand was resting in something soft, fabric.

“Very good. Can you open your eyes, can you do that?”

He found that he could. It felt like someone had poured sand over his eyelids and covered it with glue, but he managed. The light stung in his eyes and he made a small sound, trying to cover them, but his arms moved slower and at less power, and…

“I can dim those for you, one moment… here, now it should be better.”

It was, and now, Carl could see who was talking. It was Siddiq.

“Welcome back to the world of the living”, the young man said, a small smile on his face.

“Wha-“

Carl wanted to speak, but his mouth was paper-dry.

“Oh, yes, water. Here, drink.”

He held a cup with a straw to his mouth, and he drank, drank greedily, rapidly. Whatever this was, it was cold, and felt great.

“What happened?”, he whispered when Siddiq had put the cup away again. “Where…”

“Hilltop. Infirmary, to be exact.”

The young man sighed. “You almost didn’t make it here.”

“But… how long has it… I don’t understand, I…”

“I’ll get your family, okay? And then we’ll explain everything.”

He managed a nod, and then Siddiq was gone, and he was alone.

Alone.

Carefully, so he wouldn’t get dizzy, he looked around the room. It was small, white walls, several beds, all empty. No windows, adjustable ceiling lights… there were two IV’s attached to his arm, and someone had changed his clothes… he reached up, slowly, to find his face bare, no bandage covering his eye. His hair felt greasy, sweaty.

“Carl!”

His father stood at the door, looking like he hadn’t slept in a long time. Maybe he hadn’t. One second, he was by the door, the next he was with Carl, arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly as if he had no intention of ever letting go again.   
“Dad… I…”

“I was so scared!”, Rick whimpered. “So, so scared… Carl…”

“Let the boy breathe”, another voice said, and then his father let go and Michonne was hugging him, just as tightly, and then Daryl. They were all here, safe…

“What happened?”, he asked, slowly making a move to sit up. Daryl helped him, leaned him against the backrest of the bed, and then his family was sitting on the bed, and Siddiq explained.

“Whatever – I should say, whoever – bit you, wasn’t a dead one.”

“But we saw them! They were… you saw them!”

“I did! I know, and I don’t understand it either, but they can’t have been dead.” The young man shrugged. “What seemed to be the fever that comes with a bite of one of those dead things, was the beginning of a sepsis. Blood poisoning.”

“But I… No, that…”

“Carl, you’ve been in and out of consciousness for three days”, Michonne said, running her hand through his hair again. “And you were bit even longer ago. If it had been a walker, you would be dead now, not recovering.”

Carl shook his head. “But that doesn’t make sense… what was that thing, then?”

“Don’t know that”, Daryl said. “But you’ll be okay.”

That was a weird thought. Okay. He hadn’t expected to be okay.

A wet sob forced its way out of his throat, and without him wanting to, suddenly he was crying, crying until his face burned and his heart ached and he could barely breathe. But his family was there, holding him, holding him tightly, with no intention of letting go.

Recovery proved to be a difficult task. He had barely escaped death, according to Siddiq and the Hilltop doctor. He was lucky that, seemingly, his organs were still intact and undamaged, but he was weak. He could barely get his muscles to comply, even when he tried easy tasks, like going to the bathroom by himself. He felt like a little child, always in need of someone’s help. Sometimes, it felt like he couldn’t get enough air, like all the wind had been knocked out of his sails. Sometimes, his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t hold a cup or a fork. His muscles ached, moving around was hard.

About three days after he woke up, he couldn’t stand the feeling on the dirt on his skin and the grease in his hair any longer. With a hot-read face, he asked for help.

Daryl carried him to one of the bathrooms, careful helped him take off his clothes and get in the porcelain tub. He helped him wash the sweat and dirt of his skin and out of his hair, calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he went about all that.

“Why didn’t you ask your Dad for help?”, he asked, but Carl didn’t know. He just shrugged and bowed his head down so that Daryl could wash the soap out of his hair. There were more loose hairs in the drain than he was used to seeing.

After a week, Siddiq cleared him to leave the infirmary and to sleep in the room that his parents occupied at the moment. They were all sleeping together, in one big bed, because they couldn’t bear to be far from each other. All of them, cuddled up against each other, Daryl and Michonne, Rick and Judith, and Carl. Well, Carl tried to sleep anyways. The literal act of falling asleep itself seemed much harder than before he had gotten sick. He was incredibly tired, but he still couldn’t fall asleep, and if he did, it was never for long, because then, there were the nightmares. He was bitten again, or his parents were bitten, or his sister… Alexandria was on fire again, and he was under water again, kicking against a chain… Negan played Eeny-Meeny-Miney-Moo and bashed all his family’s heads in… It was bad. Very bad. But every time he woke up, his parents were there, held him as he cried and gasped for air, and sometimes Judith woke up to and cuddled up against him, clumsily patting his cheek and telling him, in the few words she knew, not to cry and that all was fine… “Safe!”, she would whisper, a new word for her. “Safe, safe, Carl safe!”

He didn’t have much more than another half-week, because unfortunately, the Saviours were awfully inconsiderate of his recovery. They attacked, but barely killed, and then, late at night, their wounded in the infirmary turned and started tearing everything apart. The weapons had been covered in walker guts. Genius plan, Carl had to give Negan that.

The world went on, somehow. Life went on. Battles were fought, losses marked down. Carl got better. The weakness left. He could sleep easier. His appetite came back. He could walk alone, do smaller chores – and bigger, too, slowly but surely – by himself. He wasn’t allowed to fight again, yet, and he still had bad dreams, and flashbacks to Alexandria burning, and to the teeth sinking in his stomach, but ultimately, he was okay. He got through.

“I wrote letters”, he told his father one evening. “When I thought I would… I wrote them.”

“Okay.” His father waited for him to go on.

“I wrote one for Negan.” Carl cleared his throat. “I asked him to stop fighting. I asked the same of you in your letter.”

“You think we should make peace?”

“Yes. There must be more than… than just fighting. There must be something after. Something good.”

His father smiled sadly. “You said that, when you were in the car. When he escaped to Hilltop.”

“I can’t really remember much of what I said then. Just that I told you about my dream. Of the future, that one.”

“Yeah… “ His Dad chuckled. “Something about me with a beard and Judith listening to you music?”

Carl rolled his eyes. “And peace, community, you know, the more important things.”

He waited for a moment.

“I still mean that. Constant fighting can’t be the answer.”

“Carl, how do you expect us to make peace with the Saviours?”, Michonne asked. “Seriously, after all that they’ve done?”

“Someone has to start forgiving.”

And then it actually happened. They actually made a peace. It costed the lives of many more, it took Eugene manipulating the bullets he made for the Saviours to that they would backfire, it took a battle, a one-on-one fight between Negan and his father.

It took Negan getting his throat slashed and then patched up.

It took a feud between Maggie and Rick, two opinions clashing against each other, one saying Negan should live, one that he should die.

Nothing came without cost. Nothing came without pain. But they had peace. For now.

Hopefully for a while longer, too.

There were always other things happening. His father got impaled on a metal rod, nearly died. Judith grew up, so did that Kingdom Boy, Henry, and so did little Hershel, Maggie’s kid.

They rebuilt Alexandria, made it bigger and better, they brought in new people, found new ways to make life better.

There were new threats, too. Some of the Saviours still remained loyal to Negan, who was in his cell in Alexandria. There was a new group that used the skin of walkers as masks and walked around with herds. Maybe it had been one of them that had bitten Carl back there, back then. Probably so, even. But they would deal with that threat, too.

“ _Bad stuff does happen, but we can figure this out_ ”, he had told Negan, the night Alexandria had burned, and he had meant it. “ _We can stop this_.”

Yeah, that’s what he had said. And it still held true. But differently than he had thought that night, he would actually be around to see it happen.

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn't all clear within the story: Carl was bitten by a Whisperer who's gone rogue and kind of lost all senses, not only walking with the walkers, but behaving like them in general. So he is not immune, he just wasn't bitten by a Walker. Therefor, he didn't turn. I know that that's a pulled-by-the-hairs explanation but I don't really care. I also added some more time in between the Alexandrians arriving at Hilltop and the Saviors attacking Hilltop to infect the people there, because convenience and plot purposes.   
> The title is from Webborn and Finn's Musical "The Clockmaker's Daughter" : "We are measured by our time. We are born to fill the moments in-between forever, with each other, made together." Would definitely recommend that musical by the way, it's beautiful.


End file.
